Operator - 01 (10 page)

A moment later, the instructor turns to Dasher and pointing to me he says, “Student. O-Kay,” prolonging the “O” with some ceremony. Dasher’s mouth falls open. He turns to me with a look of consternation, and explains. “Alpha found this guy ten years ago. We heard rumors about him for years before that. We bring him shooters three years in a row and he tests them out and says no. Doesn’t make any fuckin’ sense. This guy is a janitor. I’m serious, that’s his fulltime job; he’s the janitor for this school. We offer him two years’ salary to take on someone for a few months. He says no. Then we double the offer. Still no. After three years of asking, we gave up. Last week Alpha calls me in and tells me to bring you to Master Shioda – Hikaru Shioda, that’s his name. I tell him he’s nuts but he just gives me that look, you know the one. And fuck me if it didn’t work. What the hell did you do? Looked to me like you got your ass kicked just as well as the rest of them.” Dasher actually looks bitter, something I have not seen from him before.

Master Shioda, whose English I will soon learn is flawless, keeps his gaze locked on Dasher as the big man speaks to me. Then, he says gently to the big man, “When you come first time, you use this,” he pats Dasher’s impressive bicep. “This one,” he says, gesturing to me, “also use this,” and here Master Shioda taps my forehead. Dasher rolls his eyes and makes a face at me, plainly disgusted. “Enjoy your stay with Mr. Miagi. I’ll see you in three months, Soldier. And if you ever try any of this shit on me, I’ll kill you.”

* * *

“George Jeffries was brought into the emergency room at St. Luke’s Cornwall Hospital by ambulance just after 1am on Sunday morning. His left knee had multiple torn ligaments as well as damage to the meniscus. An orthopedic surgeon performed arthroscopic surgery yesterday to repair the meniscus and assess the damage to the ligaments. George was released from St. Luke’s yesterday afternoon at 6pm. He took a taxi from there to his car, which was parked in New Paltz, then drove it – against medical advice – to the Days Inn in Kingston, where he had been staying for the weekend. It appears that Mr. Jeffries was surprised there by an assailant who shot him and took the cash and credit cards from his wallet, as well as his watch.” Sheriff Buddy Peterson pauses to slide a photo to me across his desk.

George is lying facedown on the floor of a motel room. He’s been shot in the back of the head, at close range. From the position of the body, he was kneeling when he was shot, which must have been excruciatingly painful after what I’d done to him. I can see a dozen little details that tell me the killer is a pro, but I keep my mouth shut. I rub my neck. It’s stiff from sleeping on the little cot in the holding cell. My back has grown used to better mattresses since I left the service. My watch has not been returned to me, but I can see from the clock on the paneled wall beside the Sheriff’s desk that it is nine-thirty in the morning. At least I’ve caught up on my sleep.

“Not two hours after this homicide occurred yesterday, I answered a call from a White Plains reporter asking to meet me today to speak about the death of Mel Harris. This reporter suggested to me in the strongest terms that her death was not self-inflicted and that she believed Mr. Jeffries to be the cause. I made some enquiries and learned that Mr. Jeffries had just been released from a local hospital, so I sent my deputies to his motel room to bring him in for questioning. I also discovered that Mr. Jeffries had been in a bar fight in New Paltz, leading to his injuries. I was able to talk to the bar manager, who explained that Mr. Jeffries had assaulted their bouncer and broke his nose, and that a young man approximately six feet tall with black hair and an athletic build intervened and disabled Mr. Jeffries, causing the injuries that sent him to the hospital. I was told this man left the scene before the police arrived…” Buddy pauses here and looks up, making eye contact with me. “It was obvious to me that this was you. Then no sooner do I start wondering what the hell is going on between you and this George Jeffries than my deputies call back in a panic saying they’ve found him murdered in his motel room.”

“What time did they find George?” I ask.

“Just after eight last night.”

“I was having dinner with my sister Ginny – you can ask her. There’s a credit card receipt in my wallet.” Buddy stops to ponder this for a moment.

“I’m sure you have an alibi, son,” he says slowly in that patient, matter-of-fact tone you use to explain things to someone who’s a little slow. “In fact, I’m absolutely convinced of that. But let me lay this out for you straight, okay? Forget about the assault at the bar. You’re in a world of trouble here.

“Do you know how the justice system works in Ulster County? It’s not very sophisticated. There are rural magistrates. In some towns, they’re not even full time and they actually move from place to place. They aren’t like big city judges in New York or Washington. The magistrate that hears arraignments in Kingston doesn’t even have a law degree – he’s a second cousin of the State Assemblyman from that district. So if the police in Kingston tie you to this murder, they’re going to arraign you. And I can almost guarantee that he’ll hold you over for trial.

“Now you may be able to get a fancy lawyer to prove that you didn’t kill George. But then again you might not. George was threatening your ex-girlfriend – I have the restraining order right here. You’re a decorated war veteran. You put George in the hospital on Saturday night and then this reporter tells you that he killed your ex. I don’t think anyone around here would hesitate to believe your sister would lie about an alibi to protect you. Either way, even if you win, you’re going to lose your security clearance and your job in the process. Your career will be over. That’s a sad fact, but that’s just the way things go.” Buddy lets this sink in for a moment. I realize he’s not bluffing – it’s a conceivable scenario.

“Son, I’m your friend. I don’t want to see this happen. But I’m in a tight situation here. This reporter friend of yours is threatening to write a story about Mel’s death. That would be very embarrassing to me and my department. More importantly, it would force me to reopen the investigation, and you would certainly get caught up in that.

“I bear some of the responsibility. I was pretty distraught over Mel’s death just like everyone else here. We didn’t investigate the way we probably should have. And for what it’s worth, Ms. Ryan’s story about Mr. Jeffries is plausible. I was over at the house this morning and it does appear that it was broken into. And now that I know about the restraining order, I can put two and two together. I should have figured this out last week, but I didn’t. But Mel’s been buried and the man who killed her is dead, so if we want to start proving what actually happened, it’ll get pretty messy.

“Frankly, son, I’m not a big city cop, I’m just a small town peace officer. From my perspective, whether or not you killed Mr. Jeffries, justice was done. He paid the price for something terrible that he did. And I don’t think you’re any danger to society. You’re a hero to the people of this town and I’m not interested in tarnishing your name.” I see where this is heading as Buddy speaks and I wait patiently for him to pull the hook he’s baited.

“The Kingston police haven’t tied you to Mr. Jeffries’ death. They don’t know you were the one who attacked George on Saturday night,” Buddy says as he spits a stream of yellow tobacco juice into an old-fashioned spittoon next to his wastebasket. I refrain from pointing out that George attacked me, not the other way around. “And like us, they have enough crime in their town that they might think this was a random break-in. So I’m willing to let this rest and keep my mouth shut. But it won’t work if your reporter friend starts stirring things up by writing a story. That can only lead folks to you. It probably wouldn’t hurt either if you got the hell out of town to let things die down for a while. Do you catch my drift?”

I nod. “I read you five by five.”

* * *

I have the midnight black GTO spooled up to 80 miles an hour on the New York State Thruway heading south when my cell phone rings. I’ve ignored the five increasingly urgent text and voice messages from Veronica that started coming through last night because I need time to think. But this call is not from her. It’s Sammie.

“Dude, I think you gave me the wrong phone number for that 9-1-1 call,” he says.

“Come again?”

“I don’t know what I was expecting to hear, but it sure wasn’t this,” he says and plays the recording to me.

“9-1-1 – what is the nature of your emergency?” a female voice asks.

“Hello? Hello?” a male voice with a Slavic accent: Russian or possibly Ukrainian. “Very sorry I am trying to reach information for pizza delivery – Dominos.” The voice pauses and the 9-1-1 operator interjects, “Sir, this is 9-1-1 – the number for emergencies. Please hang up and dial 4-1-1 for information.” The Russian voice laughs and replies, “Please excuse, I am very sorry.” The 9-1-1 operator says, “That’s alright, sir, have a good day.” Then the phone disconnects.

“That’s not the voice I was expecting to hear either. Can you read back the number you checked?” I ask and Sammie does. It is the same number I’d given him. “Can you check to see who the phone is listed under?”

“I did – the number is registered to Melissa Harris on Orchard Road in Conestoga, New York,” he replies.

“That’s the right one. Can they have mixed up the call logs?”

“Yeah, that was my first thought, too, but there’s no mistake. The systems are routinely audited and double-checked. They have to be able to send the police or fire department to the address of anyone who calls in, even if the caller doesn’t know their own address, so accuracy is a big deal for them. I think you can be 99.9% certain that the call came from that house,” Sammy concludes briskly. “Anyway, is this at all helpful?”

“In a way,” I reply and ponder for a second. “Is there any way of finding out if anyone else has pulled this recording?”

“Hold on the line and let me check,” Sammy says. I wait a few minutes before he returns. “It looks like a Sheriff Peterson from Conestoga requested it on Thursday, the day after the call,” Sammy confirms.

I exhale a whistle. “That’s very helpful. I’ll be in touch, Sammie.”

I run through the sequence of events again in my mind before dialing information in New York City, asking for the business number for the bank where George worked. When the receptionist answers I ask for George Jeffries. A moment later another woman picks up the phone.

“George Jeffries’ line, this is Nancy,” the woman says smoothly.

“I’m trying to reach George Jeffries,” I reply.

“I’m sorry, he’s not in at the moment, would you like to leave a message?”

“When can I reach him?” I press.

“Are you a friend of Mr. Jeffries?” the woman asks.

“We’ve met,” I reply truthfully.

“Well, I’m sorry to say that Mr. Jeffries is…deceased,” the woman says after a few seconds of consideration. Then I hear her falter over the phone. “I’m very sorry but we just found out about this and everyone here is in shock.”

“No, I apologize,” I offer. “I’m very sorry to hear that. Perhaps you can help me, though. I sent a package by courier over to your group last week and it was received at 6:30pm on Wednesday night. I’m trying to track it and couldn’t read the signature. Could it have been George who signed for it?”

“Let me check his calendar...” the woman says, and I hear computer keys clicking. “Ah yes, I remember. We were finalizing a deal that evening and Mr. Jeffries was in the office all night. He actually didn’t leave until late the next afternoon. I’d be surprised if he signed for a courier delivery, though. I stayed late that night as well and that’s what he has – I mean, had me for.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say and hang up before she can ask me any questions. Then I call Veronica.

She’s clearly angry with me until I explain that I didn’t return her calls because I’ve spent a night in jail. Then she apologizes, sounding both horrified and remorseful. She tells me that she left a message for the Sheriff before we met, but she was too embarrassed to tell me when I dismissed her concerns. She wanted to find out what time Mel killed herself to see if the 9-1-1 call came before or after. Sheriff Peterson called her back just after I had called her from my car last night, and dragged the entire story out of her. In no uncertain terms he ordered her to meet him at 7am this morning, then had her take him through all the things she showed me. Then he promised to investigate and asked her to hold off speaking to her editors for a couple of days. He didn’t tell her anything about George’s death, which she is shocked to hear about from me. I relay the Sheriff’s ultimatum.

“Well thank God you know Sheriff Peterson personally,” she says, “because he’s right about the magistrate system in this state. It’s a mess – it’s been written up in the
New York Times.
Who knows what would have happened to you if you got caught up in all that?”

“I’m still in it. I can’t ask you not to write a story about this. That’s your job, isn’t it?”

“My job is writing feature stories for a suburban newspaper, not speculating about murders! Even if I wanted to, do you have any idea what it would take to get a story like this printed? You don’t want to know. Don’t worry, you’re safe.”

“I don’t think so. We’ve still got two problems,” I say, sighing.

“Which are?”

“I was able to listen to the recording of the 9-1-1 call last Wednesday night from Mel’s apartment. It wasn’t George’s voice. The speaker was Russian or maybe Ukrainian. After I heard the recording, I called George’s bank. I talked to his assistant. It turns out that George was at work all night on Wednesday. He was there finalizing some deal until mid-day on Thursday, in fact. He couldn’t have killed Mel.”

I slow the GTO, checking for traffic in the rearview mirror. Then I pull quickly across two lanes, exiting the Thruway at the last minute. “That’s the first problem,” I say to Veronica as I bring the GTO to a halt in front of the traffic light at the end of the exit ramp.

“What’s the second problem?” she asks.